Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “What?” he asks in my ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  I crane my neck so I’m closer to him, and I immediately love and regret the decision. His scent—soapy and clean—floods my nostrils. “I said, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  Reilly leans in close enough to kiss me. “Why’s that?”

  Because everything’s different, things are confusing, and you broke my heart. A loud, crowded bar isn’t the place, so I say nothing.

  “Don’t you think,” he continues in my ear, “that it would make this whole situation a lot easier if we could try to put the past behind us?”

  Put the past behind us? Like that’s so easy to do with Bethany popping up everywhere and Mike being in town and Reilly being back . . .

  I step away from him, not liking how messy my thoughts are when he’s around. Distance always makes things easier, I’ve learned. I’m even more relieved when I see Mac finally heading toward us. Her face lights up and she’s suddenly so giddy she’s practically jumping up and down.

  Setting her drink down on the table, Mac throws her arms around Reilly’s neck. “You’re home!” she squeals.

  Reilly’s arms wrap around her, and a slight pang of envy weasels its way in as I consider how easy their friendship is.

  “It’s been too long,” Mac chides. “And I can’t believe I haven’t seen you until now. It’s not like we live in the same small-ass town or anything.” Though it’s loud with the music and all the raised voices, I’m close enough to hear them—to smell Reilly’s clean clothes and the lilac perfume Mac loves to wear so much.

  It’s too much. The room is too much—too warm and confined. I twist my hair up and off my back and take a deep breath.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve been pretty busy around my old man’s place.”

  Reluctantly, Mac unwinds herself from him and steps back. She scans his body and shakes her head. “Exactly as I pictured you,” she says mostly to herself. “Better, actually.” And though I don’t think Reilly can hear her, he shoots her a sideways glance.

  Mac picks up her drink, hands Reilly’s beer to him, then nods at me to raise my glass. “Welcome home!” she says to him, flashing her megawatt smile.

  We cheers, and the three of us clink bottles and glasses, ending it with a hearty drink, though I take a few more pulls than the rest of them.

  Glancing around for Nick, I’m not really surprised to find he’s still chatting it up with Savannah behind the bar. I slurp a few more times through my straw, slightly aware of the fuzziness of my brain.

  “So, Nick told me how crazy the house situation is. How are all the renovations going?” Mac takes a drink of her blue AMF and sets it back down. Her glass is more than half full still.

  “Whoops,” I mumble. Mine is practically gone.

  Reilly shrugs. “Renovations could be better, but it is what it is.” Shoving one hand in his pocket, Reilly takes another swig of his beer. His stance is straighter, his body bigger, his face marred with small scars. He’s a man now, a beautiful one that almost feels like a stranger, but I can still see the-boy-next-door in there, too.

  “That bad, huh?” Mac’s eyebrows raise in sympathy.

  Reilly lifts a shoulder again and offers her an awkward smile. “I guess I didn’t realize how bad things were before he passed. The place is a shithole, worse than I remember. Let’s just say there’s a lot to do.”

  All I can think about is how long the renovations will take him and that eventually he’ll be gone again. The noise echoing over the lake will be gone, and everything will be silent again. The chance run-ins will be no more. I’m not sure if that makes me happy or sad. “When are you leaving again?” I ask.

  Both Reilly and Mac look at me. Mac’s head tilts and she pins me with a WTF scowl. That was so rude is written all over her face. Remotely, I’m aware that the booze is starting to kick in and my filter is disintegrating. “That probably came out wrong,” I say.

  “Hopefully soon,” Reilly finally answers. “You want me gone that badly already, huh?”

  I shrug, thinking about it. “It would be easier,” I say honestly. This time, when I try to take another sip of my AMF, my straw gurgles, and I come up empty. I peer down at my liquidless glass.

  “Sam,” Mac hisses.

  “What?” She snatches my empty glass away and sets it on the table beside her, her expression condemning. I refrain from pointing out that she’s the one who bought me the drink in the first place. She’s the one who wanted to come see Reilly. She’s the one who wanted me to loosen up.

  “Sorry about Sam,” Mac says, apologizing to Reilly. “Clearly the wine and the drink aren’t boding well for her tonight.”

  I glare at her.

  “It’s fine,” Reilly says, studying me a moment longer before he takes a swing of his beer and walks away.

  I’m trying to figure out what I said that was so offensive, but I come up empty. I was honest and wasn’t rude, at least not intentionally.

  When Reilly’s out of earshot, Mac leans across the table, glowering. “What the hell is your problem, Sam?”

  “I don’t have a problem. I was just asking a simple question, Jesus.”

  Mac studies me a minute. “What is this really about? The incident at the lake or is it something else? I know you guys have a convoluted history that makes all of this a little difficult for you, but really.”

  “What did I say that’s so horrible?”

  “His father just died, Sam. Remember how that feels?”

  Her words bite into me, tear at my flesh and leave an open, gaping wound that makes the backs of my eyes sting.

  She must see the injury of her words because her narrowed expression softens. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But worst father of the year or not, John’s death has got to be hard on Reilly. I can’t believe you told him it would be easier if he just left.” As she repeats my words back to me, nausea and guilt churn in my gut.

  “That didn’t come out right,” I say. “I’ll apologize to him, okay?”

  But when I glace up and see Reilly chatting and smiling with Bethany again, I forget about my apology and decide it’s time I remove myself from this equation for the night. I knew coming down here would be a mistake.

  I walk past Mac, not needing her or anyone else’s judgement tonight.

  “Sam!” Mac calls behind me, but I keep walking. I push through the entrance, hoping the fresh air will clear my head and rid me of the unwanted weight hovering over my heart. But it isn’t fresh air that will help me right now, I already know that. I want to feel the raw burn, the release. I need it. I find the cut below my hip and rub it reassuringly.

  “Sam, wait.” Mac pulls on my arm, turning me around. “Tell me what’s going on.” She squeezes my arm. “Please.”

  I shake my head. If the last three years have taught me anything, it’s that talking about things doesn’t make them better. It just makes them more real and hurtful. “I’m just . . .” I rub my forehead, wanting to be anywhere but around her and her concern right now.

  “Just what, Sam? Tell me.”

  “I can’t be around him—”

  “Why? Because you still have feelings for him?”

  “Because of everything. Bethany. Mike. Papa—Reilly left me here. He chose to leave!” I shout. I don’t really know what I’m saying or why any of it should matter—it’s all over and done and in the past. My mind is racing. I moisten my lips and try to disregard my charging emotions. I hate that now, of all times, in a damn parking lot at a bar, I’m losing control. I need to get out of here, I need to be alone. “I’m not sure I can do this,” I say more urgently.

  “You have to, Sam. It’s part of moving on.”

  I shake my head as my mind fills with remorse and regret. “Reilly knows.”

  Mac steps closer to me. “He knows what?”

  “Too much. He knew what
Mike was. That night . . .” It’s like I can see the same disappointment in Reilly’s eyes, the same hurt as I saw in Papa’s. All my decisions and how much they injured everyone else seem more suffocating than ever. I hate that everything’s bubbling to the surface, that I’ve been doing so well, been so focused, but now . . . My eyes burn and I swallow a sob away.

  Mac pulls me into her arms, embracing me, and I realize my body is shaking. I sniffle, knowing alcohol is to blame for this verging meltdown. I clench my jaw and hold my breath, pulling my emotions back, just below the surface and cling tighter to Mac. Silent tears stream from my eyes as I stare past her, out at the garish red truck glaring at me from the curb.

  Mac’s voice is soft when she speaks again. “I don’t pretend to understand what you’ve gone through, Sam. God, I—I can’t imagine.” She exhales and rubs my back. “But I know what it’s like to carry around guilt that you can’t possibly let go of, even though you know, in your heart of hearts, that you should.”

  Even through the whirling of my mind, Mac’s confession surprises me. When I pull back and look at her, her eyes are imploring.

  With a resigned sigh, Mac steps up to the building and leans against it. “I know what it feels like to blame yourself—to feel alone, and to want something you can never have.” She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at me. “I might not know what it feels like to have both of my parents die, to blame myself for that, but I know what it feels like to have one of them leave you because they want to, to never think twice or look back.”

  Although I know Mac thinks about her mom more often than she’ll ever admit, I never considered the fact that she blamed herself for any of what happened. Mac’s eyes are gleaming, illuminated by the neon flashing signs as she stares out at nothing in particular. I can tell how lonely part of her is. I hear the longing to have her mother back in her voice.

  I’m a terrible, horrible friend, wrapped up in my own problems and completely ignoring hers. She holds more worries, more secrets behind her confident, offhanded façade than anyone else I know. I should’ve known better.

  I lean up against the wall beside her, wipe my cheeks dry, and listen.

  “If it weren’t for whatever my dad did or didn’t do to piss my mom off,” Mac continues, “she’d still be around. But how can I blame him for a choice she made?” She turns to face me. Like always, Mac has this way of staring beyond what she sees, deep down into my soul like she can uncover hidden truths and confessions no one else can. “Look,” she says more tenderly. “I know you’ve got a lot of shit you’re dealing with. God, I don’t blame you for being angry and hurt and whatever else is going on. I want you to be angry about what happened—with Alison especially. I want you to fight back and move on and finally live your life instead of just making things work.

  “Seeing you stuck, grasping onto something that’s never going to come back and struggling just to keep yourself together, is breaking my heart, Sam.” She squeezes my shoulders. “I know your dad wouldn’t want you to live your life in guilt and unhappiness. And you need to get over this whole blame thing. There were a lot of factors leading up to that night, and you can’t shoulder all of it or change any of it. You have to let yourself move on, and you know what? If that means leaving the ranch and leaving Alison, then that’s what you need to do.”

  Mac leans into me and wraps her arms around my shoulders again. “I love you, Sam. I want you to be happy and free from all of this.”

  “Love you,” I say, and I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath. I can’t leave Alison—I won’t—and I need the ranch. It’s all I have left, no one seems to understand that. I exhale when Mac takes a step back and blinks a few times, happy when the tears are more or less under control again.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod and wipe my cheeks dry. “I will be, thanks.”

  Mac pauses and scours my face again, seeing too much. “Do you want to go back inside?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “That’s probably not a good idea. I’ll talk to Reilly tomorrow.” The urge to cry lingers, nestled in the back of my throat, in my chest, gnawing to be let out, but I can’t allow it. Deep down I know it’s because I’m afraid I would never be able to stop if I truly began to cry. I need to be alone, to release the crippling tightness around my heart the only way I know how.

  “I’d actually like to be alone for a minute. I’m going to walk back to your place.” I smile as reassuringly as I can manage. I hope that she can’t see through me, through the alcohol that flushes her cheeks.

  Mac’s gaze is shrewd and fixed, though, and for a moment I worry I’m wrong, she can see through her intoxication. She sees something in my expression that shadows her own features with concern, but then they brighten and she smiles. “Let’s go together,” she says. “What’s a girl’s night without the girls—as in more than one.” She steps toward the door. “Let me tell Nick and Reilly we’re leaving.”

  I reach out for her as she turns away. “You should stay and have fun. I’ll walk back by myself. It’s fine, really.”

  “No way,” she says quickly and shakes her head. “I forced you down here, I’ll take you home.” She smiles, and I feel like the smile means more than reassurance. “I’ll be right back.”

  I grab my hip, pressing my fingernails into the raw flesh, letting it burn. I need to be alone . . .

  I silently scream when she disappears inside.

  Eleven

  Reilly

  When the sun rises, I’m already awake, a routine I’ve had difficultly breaking since I got back to the States. It doesn’t help that my list of to-dos grows longer by the day while my desire to stay wilts away.

  Determined to get the gutters down and demolish the porch roof before the morning grows too hot, I grab a cup of coffee and head out the back door toward the work shed. Though the property is expansive, there’s little on it other than the house, save for a few dilapidated outbuildings cluttered with garbage and intermittent troves of tools worth using.

  I need another project around this place like I need a hole in the head, but I can’t ignore the outbuildings, not if I’m going to make any money on this place when it sells. I make a mental note to figure out what I’m going to do with the toolshed later.

  Grabbing my tool belt draped over the warped back porch railing, I head around to the side of the house to Petey’s newly constructed kennel. He whimpers anxiously as I approach, hungry for his morning breakfast, but he doesn’t bark—I can tell he wants to, but he refrains.

  I stop in front of the gate and reach for the latch. “Sit,” I say, low and commanding. Petey’s tail still wags violently, but he sits nonetheless. I can’t help but beam a little bit with pride at how well he’s starting to listen. Slowly but surely . . .

  Sam used to tell me I have a lot of patience, having to deal with the old man and all. I never really saw it like that, I was just what I had to be, but I’m starting to think she might be right where Petey’s concerned, at least.

  The mutt licks his lips, barely able to contain his excitement, and I clip a long rope leash to his collar.

  “Good boy,” I say and walk him toward the front of the house. Tying him up to an oak tree flanking the front porch, I reach for his empty food and water dishes shoved back in the bushes and head back inside the house to fill them up.

  Petey yips but doesn’t bark as he prances in place, impatiently waiting for his breakfast. “Lucky dog,” I say as I step back out into the brightening sun. “You’re eating before me now, too.” His muzzle’s shoved in his food dish before I can set it down all the way.

  I take a swig of coffee, briefly wondering if Sam’s up yet, and try not to think about what she said to me last night, or at least not let it bother me. I could tell she’d been drinking a little, but I know from experience that’s when the truth comes out. In this case, the truth stung more than I wanted it to. I didn’t expect us to be best friends, but I figured we could at least be cordial.
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br />   Turning on the tape deck radio, I tune it to my favorite rock ’n’ roll station, surprised it’s still on the air after all this time. There’s something about rock ’n’ roll first thing in the morning. It gets my blood pumping on the days I don’t run or lift or train. I open up the ladder at the corner of the porch, prepared to pry the rust-rotted gutters from the trim. The disc jockey’s voice trails off as an old school anthem blares from the speakers.

  Electric guitar had always been something I’d wanted to learn to play, the only instrument I ever thought was cool enough. In high school, I’d get lost in the angry, heartbroken lyrics of hair bands that beat the shit out of their drums and fell on their knees, feeling each word so strongly it resonated in my soul. I suppose the music—other than memories—was the only “old” part of me I had with me when I was moving place to place over the past four years.

  I glance down at Petey, scarfing down the last of his morning meal, and start to tear the old gutters off the roof. I grab a fistful of the decaying leaves and acorns overflowing from one of them and toss a few handfuls over my shoulder so I don’t dump them all over myself. I’m not sure how none of the gutters have fallen off yet, they hang so precariously.

  I rip a long piece from the trim and toss it toward a pile on the ground. I notice Petey sniffing around the debris too late, and I shout for him to move. That and the sound of the aluminum crashing to the ground sends him running toward me, through the ladder legs and under the deck.

  The instant I realize his rope is tangled around the base of the ladder, it shakes beneath me, and I know I’m screwed. Without thought, I grab onto the roof as the ladder topples over.

  “Oh, shit!” I quickly drop to the ground after it, barely missing the ladder legs as my feet hit the ground. I stare at the ground a moment and catch my breath.

  Luckily, the house doesn’t stand too terribly high, and other than a few curses, a throbbing leg, and a racing heart, I’m okay. Petey, on the other hand, whimpers and tunnels further beneath the deck, petrified.